… in the eyes of a confidante

Treasured Visions

By: Uriah “The CivILLian” Walters: The Escribe Adventurist

The pupils of my peers house museums
Accented by unique Irises and tears
The depth of their sight seeing is a temptress to their mouths
To which often times their lips must perform it in a shout
But as seas of skys spiral to and fro
And the Seasons find a time to bloom and to doze
So goes the cascading of the lids
A vast fading in the lens
Taking breaks in dark slumber
from the Masquerading Images
Spurts of rejuvenation from eye candy land
So as to not irritate the migraines and flash attacks
and seizures with delusions of grandeur
and jaundiced galore corneas
The eyes sleep
The I’s would speak of pulchritudinous wonders
Vivacious in the essence of their syntactical structures
One could hear the intimacy in their expressions
Relieved of the ulcerous legions of lesions they intercepted.
They would wring out of their ducts
Puddles worth of tales
That by each rolling dew
A slew of sip-sup-sobs would imbue the trails
The mechanics of their woes and wails
crystallized in turpentine cones of pale
Turned their faces into portraits of autumn
Until what blossoms in the gloss of their twinkles
Projected on the palette oh so radiantly
Recently they insisted on wearing shades.
Opaque reflections channeling an unplugged
Cathode-ray tube television screen
So the I’s eyes’ liquid crystals
wouldn’t display trickles of
what hope underwent abrupt cancellation
The framework excelled at jotting out the vulner-abilities of the able-minded
And magnifying the lowkey pose which
really is a cover to hide the sudden unreasoning fear that propped itself
within the midst of the projector
This panic was,
it was a tainted scene
Perhaps headquarters made a technical difficulty in which
The world is supposed to look like it’s turning upside-down,
Frail, bottoms-up, with its cheeks spanked lest that it not be alive.
And one would want to say to it “be at peace, be pacified, for as a child, you weep at simple times”
However, it never listens. For it cries, and it whines and it throws tantrums with its spoiled, hungered belly
And it screeches something immobilizing to the will of man that tends to break down his build, starting with his I’s.
His I’s, the center of his pride
Plucked with lashes worth of lacerations ’til his lashes lash down to hide his eyes
The demise of his drive, captured in some somnolent REM cycle ride.
Like, this is where dreams die
But what would happen if the eyes weren’t so affixed on “I”
And wherein developed a fixation for “I AM”
Rather than shouting I CAN’T
Plentiful times as a mind chant
For the tongue to wind and encamp in?
What would happen if the shame could be lifted
By knowing the fearfully and wonderfully made frames existed?
They would be sported fashionably
Adding purpose with visions of masterpiece


About ninty15

(to be expanded upon)
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